Sunday, 21 September 2008

Friday, 12 September 2008

Monday, 8 September 2008

Today was Alice's first day back at pre-school after the summer break. As our childminder has swanned off to New york for a week (something wrong here, we haven't made it to New york yet!) I was the one doing 'first day back'. Now this is even bigger than it seems. I took it into my head 2 days ago that it was finally bye-bye dummies for Alice.

Good grief, some people are thinking - isn't Alice 3 1/2?. Yeah, she is. But something fabulous has happened in the last year or so. I have broken free from other-mummy-induced guilt. Am I the only one that succumbed to this? It started for us from the get-go with Alice. I had pre eclampsia and whilst my body coped remarkably well with galloping blood pressure, kidneys having a protein-fest and not even recognising the epigastric danger sign I was meant to call an ambulance for, Alice came out a scrawny 4lb 11oz at 38 weeks. Obviously she was a little dot. And she fed like one. Always. No sooner did I get together with other IVF new mummies than we were onto ounce-age, and nap-age, and WEIGHT GAIN. I felt such a failure, I clearly couldn't stuff more milk down her throat, and short of strapping flesh-coloured bean bags to her for clinic visits, her weight was her weight - 5% centile, all the way. I am sure this was complicated by unacknowledged and undiagnosed post-natal depression, but seeds are sown.

I then dug even deeper into this, and it reached climatic proportions with Florence. Florence could not move herself to a sitting position until she was 13 months old. Florence didn't crawl until she was 13 months old. She didn't pull up, she didn't bum-shuffle. She did nothing except sit flat on her bottom once you'd put her there. The Health Visitor confirmed my worries and referred her on for investigations into developmental delay. For anyone who knows the UK health system, referral is serious business because it's serious money. The day I found out I went online, floods of tears to talk and find support from online friends. One of whom I spoke to was very sympathetic. And then promptly sent me a video of her child (younger than Florence) toddling along and tryng to climb the stairs. I am sure those of you who have had those bizarre conversations with people who know you're struggling to conceive, but expect you to turn cartwheels with their 'I only have to look at him' pregnancies will empathise with how this felt.

A door closed in me that day. I vowed to judge my kids absolutely in their own right, to never compare and to never feel pressured into doing something just because other people think you should.

So, Saturday night, after 5000 delaying tactics, of which 'another dummy' featured high on the running order, I just quietly said 'we're giving the dummies to the dummy fairies now, Alice'. And took them. A few tears, promises of her very own make-up and off to sleep. We've had a few little wobblers (openly from her, mentally from me) but tonight the only mention of them was to 'take Florence's dummies away' (oh, feel the sisterly love).

This morning Alice was as good as gold, getting herself dressed, uncomplaining, undemanding and I took my eye off the ball. I forgot my own science rules. I ignored the silence.

I went into my bedroom to collect something and Alice is sat on the floor holding the Sudocrem tub. I quietly took it off her and happened to glance down to THICKLY COATED SUDOCREM LEGS. And carpet. And dress.

It came off her legs very easily, and luckily mostly off her dress. And off to school we went. Alice sporting her new lipstick, and very soft legs.

Saturday, 6 September 2008

Oh dear. I had another one of those bright ideas this morning. See, this is what happens when I am home from work too much.

The day promised dismal cloud, showers and blustery wind. Even dim me knew that trying to stay in and avoid it would be a recipe for lunacy, initially of the mad-playing-screaming-wrecking variety from my 2 quiet, shy, retiring flowers, and then the full-on get that nice, strappy white coat variety from me.

I know, thought I, we'll plant some spring bulbs. We'll all enjoy that. Off we gaily went to our local garden centre, and once I managed to drag limpit-like Alice away from the 'press-a-button-to-hear-a-sample-of-hippy/sea/ancient chinese/meditation/just bloody weird music we made it to pick some bulbs. Here's where I clearly forgot I am a mother to 2 energetic, VERY opinionated toddlers. I buy the biiiiiiig bargan bag - loads of varieties, and visions of a Wordsworth-esque spring in my mind we head home. Lunch and a nap and we're all set.

Frist off Alice poked half-heartedly at the turf, and when a hole didn't magically open in front of her, threw a wobbler and stalked off back into the house (grumpy from nap). Florence, very earnestly and eagerly allowed me to dig a little hole which she then filled in. Again and again. After about 30 minutes (and 2 rain showers which Florence and I steadfastly ignored) Alice relented and actually became quite helpful. Then it was Florence's turn to have a paddy. Obviously I was not meant to fill the holes until we had put the whole SACK of bulbs in, as opposed to my artistic 2/3. Alice and I were going great guns by this point, me digging, her fetching bulbs, me filling and her stamping. As I dug the next hole (we're only halfway down one side of the garden at this point) I feel something sharp on one finger, and carry on. Move onto the next hole and I raise my hand to see that finger covered in blood. Wonderful. By that point boredom has set in with both girls (there's an awful lot of garden, and an awful lot of bulbs left) so all 3 of us retire hurt.

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

Some people I work with are becoming accustomed to me moaning about my hair. or being called my children's grandmother. Or my DH's Mum.

In one conversation I gave a monologue about my grey sprinkling, how aging it was and how mine was happening earlier than anyone elses. I paused and looked up sorrowfully at my colleagues and said 'perhaps I should dye it....do YOU ever dye your hair?' Their faces were incredulous, then laughing 'OF COURSE WE DO!'.

So, today I snuck into avery quiet supermarket and appropriated a pack of semi-permanant dye 'Dark Honey Blonde'. I was feeling younger and foxier just reading the packet (and naturally, looking at the 20 year old model I would of course resemble following applying the dye).

Here's the blurb:

Long-lasting, beautiful colour full of depth, dimension and shine.

Works with your tones and highlights for the most natural colour for you.

Covers grey completely, even on the most resistant grey hair.

Healthy Shine Conditioner for vital moisture and shine.

Most resistant grey?????? MOST RESISTANT GREY?????? I think bloody not. Mine have obviously been through SAS dye-resistance training because they are blithely and merrily not only unaffected, but completely unconcerned by the assault mounted on them today. DH's verdict was 'it looks darker'. But this was seeing it in our 1930's tiffany lamp lighting. And he's male. So hardly a glowing review.

As a consequence of this I have been forced into eating mode and have consumed today:

A submarine made out of french stick, salad and beef. Trident Missle carrier, I think.

A doughnut which nearly had me passing out in ecstacy.

A Jacket potato and bolegnaise sauce the size of a small, Eastern European country. I may have even seen a couple of Russian tanks loitering around the edges - that sodding stopped them - haven't had the place you'e tried to invade EATEN in front of your eyes before, have you??!!!

Monday, 1 September 2008

So...Friday was my birthday. Spent it in a way I am happy with, but probably not the most conventional. A friend's husband had died and Friday was his funeral. I am glad I went, for her. Not so glad at the DH off nights who INSISTED on coming. And didn't sleep. At all. And was a hideous, growling, snarling bear with a sore head by the time we got back. Then passed out in the lounge.

So, I busy myself with some planned phone calls...or so I think. The phone is down. As is the internet. DISSAAAAASSSSTER. I thought it would be a right laugh to spend the evening on my mobile to the BT Call Centre in India and get told off by an operator with an attitude. Oh yeah, happy freaking birthday to ME.

Saturday was better, my best bud Pig-Dog arrived for the weekend (long story, needless to say she wasn't christened that) and a jolly time was had by all. Her and I went out for dinner in the village and had a fab time over a bottle of wine.

Sunday I dregged her to church with me and the girls, left DH doing some DH sulking stuff at home (he periodically turns into a pouting 14-yr old who doesn't want to get out of bed, or have breakfast with everyone else...only I can't ground him) and we came back for a huge sunday lunch and a snooze.

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

1. Newtons Law - for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For mummies this means that every developmental step has a DARK side. Ooooh, yippee, he's walking already. Oh holymotherofgodandallthebiggysaintpeople he's walked right out onto the road.

2. Magnetism - this works in two ways: the first that a baby/toddler will be irresistably attracted to anything dangerous - if it's there, they'll find it. The second is magnetism from dirt - your child will suck it onto themselves. This last one grows in strength according to how recently you have changed them into that 'darling little outfit'.

3. Gravity - especially strong around toddlers, what goes up, or actually is even pretty happy level, will come down in the hands of toddlers. This is especially true of breakable items r messy things (then revert to rule 2.).

4. Thermodynamics - a young child will increase their ability to kick off covers in a directly proportional measurement according to how cold it is - and conversely, will manage to wrap themselves up in every scrap of their bedding, toys and mattress if they try really hard, as the weather gets warmer.

5. Energy can't be destroyed. No, it can't. Honestly. Trust me. It may be temporarily delayed, but then only to appear in a different form shortly afterwards. Usually centering around the magnetism rule.

6. Matter can be destroyed. Very easily. And quickly.

7. Nature hates a vacuum. So do young children (not only the vacuum cleaner as in my little eccentrics) Toddlers don't long tolerate a vacuum very well either. And will usually fill it according to the other laws.

8. The speed of sound. Actually the speed of silence and just how much can be accomplished by little hands in that silence. Beware quiet.

9. Babies and toddlers are secretly nocturnal creatures and it would do us good to adapt to their natural tendencies - dark doesn't mean sleep.

10. The law of infinity - They will take you to your limits - and past them. The biggest of these is just how much you can love another being. It just keeps on growing. And growing.....

Sunday, 24 August 2008

I quite often have some buring issue that I just HAVE to share with my blogosphere friends but tonight....I dunno. Burble time.

We had a fab day. Fab in the ordinary sense of having the family together. Not something that happens to often with police-officer-Stay-Late-DH. Nothing mind-blowingly extraordinary went on.

We did yesterday's grocery shop. With no queues (Hey - Legoland - check Tesco out - no queues!!) We had a gloriously huge sunday lunch at an odd little pub in the village.

I say odd, not because it didn't have a roof, or you had to join an arcane relgious sect to enter, but odd in the British way of oddness.

This pub has 'gone under New Management'. And flaunted this change into a 'dining experience' in all our local publications (ok The Stotfold monthly 'we have a bring and buy' magazine, the 'buy your trotters from Skudder's butchers' magazine...you must know the type) so we thought, yes, let's give it a go.

So we go into the tiniest bar in existence. There was no childrens room - the whole place was a children's room due to its size. No family friendly drinkies, just big peoples juice in big glasses. A giant stags head on one wall (virtually taking up the wall) (The pub is called The Stag so we should have expected it) which matched the flatscreen in the opposite corner perfectly. Such a nice touch.

In to lunch. Guided in (please don't think I am being uncharitable but...) by...I have to say it...an anorexic (literally) biker-chick-boy-I-don't-know. Wearing a baseball hat. She had the charisma of plasticine and the smile of...oh, wait. That's right. She didn't smile. (Frowning uses more calories) That was the last of any waitress we saw. We did eat, because it was a 'carvery' - in this case it meant a giant chef trapped behind a teeny counter sporting a buffalo-sized piece of beef and some chickens. And vegetables.

The food was stunning - plenty of it and well-cooked. But it left us with a soft-sad giggle at just how 'wrong' these places sometimes get it.

For some reason, in England, we take great pride in not taking great pride. It's kind of a 'oh, I am bored now, let's just leave it like it is'. There doesn't seem to be that 'finish', that 'attention to detail'. We like doing things half-assed. Let's spend millions on re-vamping something then staff it with 14-year old cheap couldn't-give-a-shit-what-day-is-it-gimme-my-minimum-wage 14 year olds. We employ the most unimaginative, unskilled drones to decorate our 'adventure' parks, who think 3 plastic tigers will give an aura of 'jungle world' to visitors. Our Ghost Trains have dodgy painted figures and models that don't scare my kids plunked awkwardly along a part-decorated line with 4 bits of string to dangle on you in the not-even-complete darkness.

We like doing it not quite good enough. Which is exactly where this pub hit. They've really got it with the food, it was superb, and could be a real money-mine, especially with all the new yuppy housing going up locally (of which, yes, we've bought into some environment-spoiling too). But no. We wont think it through. We'll just add food onto what was going anyway. It'll be fab.

So, anyway (You did have good warning I could whinge!) after lunch everyone collapsed with huge bellies (waitress excepted). Later a trip to the park followed by a visit to Old McDonalds (the girls think it's called that) and bath, books, bed.

Things that made me laugh:

DH in the spinny-inertia-play thing at the park. I am used to the girls saying 'STOP STOP STOOOOOOP IT NOW' when it gets going, but DH, legs a-dangling. Let's just say my reactions delayed a little.

Florence bursting her balloon from Old McDonalds (junk food and unpredicable toys - super). She insisted on banging it on the one thistle that keeps on growing in the garden and BANG.

Alice bursting her ballon on the exact same thistle 5 minutes later.

Unconnected to any of this, please check the labels. I am thoroughly enjoying the strange searches on Google that bring people here, and am now experimenting. The most bizarre and banal words will give you a page 1 Google placement.

Saturday, 23 August 2008

Says me to DH 'I know, why don't we take advantage of the one good day's weather this long weekend, bin the grocery shop, bin the new carseat hunt, and go to Legoland'

Without any deeper thinking. That maybe, just maybe, the rest of the country was tihnking the same thing. And maybe, just maybe the M25 would be an exercise in staring into the car of the people in the next lane, starting to smile, point at each other's kids, exchange addresses/phone numbers, and arrange to meet up on the way back.

We eventually got there. Probably about 2 hours later than anticipated. And with me desperate for an alernative phrase to 'no, we're almost there, please stop dismantling your seats/toys/each other'.

I am not saying it was overcrowded. But Legoland is in Windsor (Hi Queen) and I think we parked in Devon. Alice insisted in going in the emergency pushchair so that was fun, pushing her weight over hill and under dale, or whatever it is.

And we get in there. Well, we could have been anywhere. HOW many people. One ride. That's all we managed. One ride. Oh, and when I say 'we', I mean Alice and DH - Florence, after almost 25 minutes queuing announced she needed changing and so I went and QUEUED at the nearest babychanging. Excellent.

Luckily, the day being so dragged out and extended, the girls weren't really aware that they hadn't actually got out of it what we intended and stumbled gladly into their carseats for the very quiet (sleeping) journey back.

Friday, 22 August 2008

I hate hate hate hate hate detest really don't like spiders. They appall me. My shoulders are shivering even typing about the beasts.

So, at coffee this afternoon, at work, the conversation moved to spiders (no, I have no idea how, especially bearing in mind the previous topics - paedophiles, easy-on-the-eye police officers...and...I forget) I voiced my opinion of them and shared a couple of facts (having conkers around the edges of the room is meant to deter them).

The next fact not only horrifies me but bloody annoys me. The UK house spider (all 6 of its varieties - not bird eating spider size, granted but enough to make my insides recoil when one skitters across the floor....or worse...sits looking at you, and you catch it out of the corner of your eye) - come into the house to DO IT. I wont use any other word to describe it as having way too much knowledge of what certain groups of people do to search on google I dont want one of those words and toddlers in the same blog.

Yes, they come in for THAT. The CHEEK of it. Not only are they utterly unwanted (oh go on, give me all the baloney of how they eat flies etc - if they were so bloody useful, come in during the summer when we might have the odd fly, not sodding autumn when it's getting colder and not a fly to be flown) but they have the NECK to frolic in my home (do spiders have necks? not for long in my house, I assure you. Or thoraxes. or legs that work). I don't wish to watch anyone up to shenanigans, least of all revolting spiders.

So - to all of you hideous spiders lurking wherever - Bugger off to Spider Speed Dating, Spider Romance Night.

It ain't happening in my house. And to those of you who mocked (you know who you are) just think of what they're doing the next time one sashays across YOUR lounge, waving its spider g-string.

Thursday, 21 August 2008

Oh, my online friends, it's been a surreal couple of weeks...I have Georgia on my mind.

We're kinda at overload with it - can't truly see what is to stop the russians doing exactly as they want. DH's family are safe so far, anything else is out of our hands. I have been doing a lot of praying and just hope there's a peaceful final resolution to this. I want to have faith, but I have doubts, and hope there's a 'plan'.

What else has kept me from doing what I love?

4 sodding HEEEEYUUUGE essays that I finally scraped up the discipline to sit down and do them the last 3 nights. Self-development - is there a module on making yourself get on with things you know will make you feel crap every night you put it off.

Now, after having a 3-night marathon on them I am so tired my eyes are bleeding, too tired even to feel that little glow you have when you've got the work out of the way.The horrid thing is, because I didn't get onto these assignments when I should (not slapping myself too hard, am only a week late) I now have to skip right onto the next workbook...and you guessed it - yeah the NEXT essays. Why do I do it to myself?!

Studying has been my life. I literally have never stopped. And now it's out of control. I am pretty much decided ramping down the career is the next plan, to be around for schoolt-times, homework and lively little girls growing up, but still I pile into getting more qualified.

Does it keep my brain alive? Well, yes - to a point. But I seem to be able to only pour in one direction at a time - when my work is up to date, I blog. And love it. When the studying cranks up my creative brain goes blleleeeuuauahhhfhfhhggh and I literally have nothing.

I like having somewhere to be 'myself', to reflect, ramble and rant. I like having so much of me left at the end of the day that I can burn off neurons on here. But I like learning too.

So, I guess, until the learning bug burns out I am stuck with all-nighters on late essays - I may not look like I am still at college, but part of me still acts like it!

Friday, 15 August 2008

Thursday, 14 August 2008

I may be one miserable son of a gun, ever poised to leap upon the potential negative in any given situation, but I am also very good at stepping back and seeing the bizarre humour in them too. Well, I think so, in fact, I make myself laugh myself silly. And that's good, right?!

So....yes, it has been a horrendously tense week for us. DH has been watching the news in utter disbelief as the situation grows ever more worrying. DH is seeing streets he's walked down, buildings he recognised and what's heartbreaking, he looks out for faces of the dead/injured he might know. We've been talking to his parents daily and have put in some very fragile contingency plans should things really get horrific (or more so)

But....before you close this and tihnk 'nooooo, seen enough of this on TV, thanks, don't want depressing in my blog-time' - well, we have had a couple of moments...

On Monday I came home from work early, having read about the Russians knocking out a telecoms tower, panicking that our link with DH's parents was broken, and that maybe the russians were heading into Tbilisi.

We decided me needed to try to do something concrete, and look into how we could try to get DHs parents over here. So, thus starts the round of phone calls. Ironically, Georgia is just so far off anyone's radar that no emergency numbers have been supplied and so you trawl through various call waiting options, gaily pressing '1 if you wish to track your application', '2 if you wish to start a new application', '3 if you wish to appeal a refusal', '5,6,7.....' '23 if you just like listening to automated messages'. No joy at any turn.

I finally decide to call the British Embassy in Georgia. To get a 'we're closed' answerphone message (with the implied 'there is a WAR on, old chap' However they do give a couple of numbers for 'distressed UK citizens' Yep, thats me.

The phone system in Georgia isn't the best. Actually, none of the infrastructure is the best. Everything is very unpredictable and sporadic. I eventually get through to a voice. Speaking Georgian - which is so vastly different from russian (they're not getting the capital 'r').

Me (in russian) Do you speak English?

Her (in russian) No

Me: (in russian) Do you speak russian?

Her (in russian, by now thinking she has got Dullard United on the phone) Yes, a little

At this point I realised what an utterly pointless question I had asked as my spoken russian is so rusty as to be virtually useless. I did manage to limp out enough to establish that I needed to try another number, but was mentally berating myself for even trying. Poor woman.

Later on DH tries the Georgian Embassy here. They answer the phone in Georgian. And what do I hear....

Him (in English) Do you speak English?

Other (obviously a yes)

Him: Sorry, my Georgian is a little rusty

We're not doing well. Later on when he was speaking to his Mum and Dad I had to remind him of words in russian several times as he had forgotten!

Friday, 8 August 2008

DH had an idea. DH decided the door colour on our house (new build a year ago) wasn't to our liking (agreed) and it needed changing NOW. DH went and chose paint - a sedate navy blue.

And then it all went horrifically wrong. Why oh why oh why oh WHY didn't I remember. Remember the bouncy laminate floor. Rememeber the falling blinds. Remember the 'blackout' blinds that were more like 'blind spot' blinds as he cut them too small. Remember the wobbly brush painting I made good in the lounge.

It is horrendous. Started bad, next coat went spiralling downhill. Bumpy, loads of drips. A 5 year old with some random ideas of painting would have probably achieved a similar effect. I am not even at angry, it is so beyond belief my brain is still in denial and hasn't caught up. There's a crazy screaming 'MY FRONT DOOR' rant caged somewhere distantly in my head but so far the sheer absurdity of it is preventing this coming out.

Sharing this with some colleagues today caused much hilarity (yeah, not your bloody front door is it, ho ho ho) and of course there's always one with PERFECT HUSBAND (yes, you Sian, I know you're reading this!) and she related what her DH had managed the day previous with 3 kids in tow. Then she went onto mention how he has said he'd be quite happy to stay home with the kids permanantly if she could earn them £50K...

It got us all thinking. Our solution is:

Form a dominatrix team. No vile messy stuff, just basic getting housework done and yelling out any frustrations/PMT. Lots of volunteers immediately, one a male (?!).

We think we have it all covered (I will only put their working names to protect them):

Some Slut (her words not ours) - she will be in the black shiny stuff and pointy boots. Oddly enough, this wont require any company outlay as she already has the costume.

Bunty - will be in an upper class riding get-up, with riding crop (also has the kit)

Strict Schoolteacher (with a very strong Geordie accent) - not sure her current uniform goes for that one, and can see why she'd probably not wear it)

Gretel - business manager. Spookily had an immediate and very fast reply to our idle wonderings at what to charge 'Definitely no less than £120 per hour'. Is blonde, delicious german accent and also possesses leiderhosen. It's always the quiet ones,

Me - I suggested my old Air Force dress uniform. People got a bit confused with my connection with Russian and decided I would presumably be dressed as Stalin. Ican see the discipline angle, but not sure I need a Trans-Siberian railway through the garden.

Tuesday, 5 August 2008

I am in the clearly enviable position of being a mother to 2 beautiful girls.

One of them didn't even require a herd of highly paid medical professionals. Well, not at the start, anyway.

So, isn't it strange how those few years of infertility out of my nearly 41 years on this earth are the ones I define myself by.

It comes out at me daily, still, from many quarters...when people comment about how close together I had my children, and nudge, nudge, wink, wink - have you realised what caused it now?! Er, well, actually THAT didn't cause it. Or not in any lasting sense. THAT bore no relation to the conception of our first child. We weren't even present for that conception. It happened about 40 miles away from our house, DH was at work and I think I was at home soothing large, throbbing ovaries.

Or in an idle conversation with workmates over lunch, when others talk of planning babies. Yes, we planned....and planned, and planned our little selves silly. But in terms of timing - Hell no! I mean, we didn't start the IVF thinking 'hmmmm...if we start on this date, the due date will be .... and that'll be lovely, in between ours and Christmas'. No thoughts like that whatsoever. I mean, we didn't actually expect it to work, or stay around if it did. So there wasn't even a ghost of thinking due dates. Even if that had been in our minds, anyone who's done IVF knows that there are so many hurdles before you get to the whole embryo/womb/2 weeks of madness part that even if you did go in with some vague notion of picking a starsign, you couldn't guarantee even being in with a chance of hitting it.

And little baby number 2 - planning?! after that little wrinkle, tear and angst inducing ride? Pardon me, but no, I didn't think of protection - would you?! I must admit to bizarrely feeling like some careless teen, going to ante-natal appointments with a burgeoning bump and a teeny just starting to crawl.

During one of these conversations I stepped outside myself, and was astounded at how far I have come. I honestly never imagined it would be possible to have these gossipy, lighthearted chats about what MY kids are doing. My kids, the ones I had genuinely got to the stage of not daring to hope for any longer.

I remember dreading going into work, hearing about yet another new pregnancy. Especially if it came bang on top of another failed month. I dreaded old friends or relatives phoning and would know instantly that they had 'news' for me. My mum had to gently break the news that my bro's girlfriend was 'whooops' pregnant with number 2, my DH spoke to his sister, and even the muffling effect of the words 'when is it due' in Russian were still another little knife into my heart.

And now I am in that 'other' gang. The one I was so, so desperate to join. And you know, I still feel so much empathy for those still wading through that swamp of hope/disappointment/hope/longing/frustration/hope...it keeps cropping up, doesn't it? that 'hope' thing. I really believe that's the human spirit. It makes infertility all the harder sometimes though, because the hope is what you have to crash down from every time it doesn't work.

This blog is for anyone who's been there or is still there. Be gentle to yourselves, it is hard enough without beating yourself with the stick that hits you from outside daily.

Sunday, 3 August 2008

As this song goes...woke up this morning, feeling (crap) knew something dah di dah CRAAAAP.

Bunged up nose, tight chest which has the exciting promise of being a super DH-bugging cough and general blahness. With a nice side-order of that 'Colitis/Schmolitis' tummy pain flooring me in the shower, watched with interest by 2 random toddlers taking it in turns to ask 'why you on floor, Mummy'.

What did we do today? Well, OBVIOUSLY I walked around like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Florence started potty training, which at the moment seems to consist of 47 visits to the loo, choice of toddler seat, knickers down, selecting a book, back off, knickers on....

Number 48 is a POST wee visit. So we get the wet floor/clothes...but no loo request!

Yeah, don't I just love it. And no cheating allowed, oh no, Florence keeps me on the straight and narrow and resists any gentle suggestions for a nappy, just for a little while.

Well, she resists, when she's not eating cat biscuits, that is. Yes, she came upstairs to me with a brown, crumby mouth and announced no, she wasn't eating her chocolate (high fibre...sssshhh) cheerios but cat biscuits. Frankly, I am beyond worrying. Alice had cat food when she was younger. Twice. I am kinda with Florence, at least trying the biscuits...cat food, that's just dirty.

Alice shockingly picked a coordinated outfit today. You're probably picking up on the slightly laissez-faire attitude from today. Admittedly, the outfit was probably more suited to a Royal Garden Party, or toddler Oscars, but colourwise she had it going on!

Well, do excuse me. I am off to sit in my own cloud of germs before retiring to leak snot onto my pillow.

Saturday, 2 August 2008

I confess: I obsess about my health. I am seriously one of those 'little pain, gonna die' people...or is it 'little pain, gonna milk me some sympathy'?

Over the years I NEVER go to the doctor with something trivial. Or rather, in my head it isn't trivial. Sometimes they even pay attention, and I might get an investigation out of it. But more often it's 'muscular/virus/muscular/get out of my office you hypocondriac'

Now, before anyone calls out the Munchausens Not-by-proxy men in white coats, let me add this one caveat: In the UK Health Service the above is pretty much the diagnosis to EVERYONE, regardless, unless you actually present with the limb hanging off, or have a severe case of rigor mortis.

Our diagnosis logrithms go something like this, I imagine

Patient presents with chest pain ----->

Laugh heartily and ask him if he's tried rennies

Patient's lips go blue and starts gasping for breath ----->

Laugh heartily and josh with patient there's no need to run to surgery

Patient collapses on floor unconcious ------>

Remind patient that there's only a 10-minute slot allowed

Patient's heart stops ----->

Ask patient if there's heart trouble in the family

You see, we go from the least serious, to the worst. Our doctors work on the 'most-unlikely theory' - if it isn't the most common thing (virus/muscles) then it'll keep going awhile..eventually you'll refer.

As you can imagine, this DOES lead to lots of delayed diagnosis, or mistaken. Anyone who's been through the infertility minefield here in the UK has their own horror story to tell, and this isn't the exception - this is the norm.

Everything's minimised, dismissed and ignored.

Which obviously creates a bit of a trust issue.

Which brings me back to my original point. What IF. OK, Ok, yes, obviously none of the things I have worried about (well, apart from the 'no, it HASN'T gone with my period, or the last 3 periods, breast lump....or 'wow, this headache just wont quit at 32w pregnant with flashing lights in eyes...or 'isn't 4% kinda low for sperm morphology') have turned out to be much.

But you hear so much, not just urban legend, real people you talk to, every day.

So, when I go to the doc with a pain I recognise as ovarian from some light dalliance with IVF, OHSS and a corpus luteum cyst in Florence's pregnancy, I really feel a little patronised and ignored when I am told 'colitis' - Pardon me, but by age almost-41 I KNOW what a crampy bowel feels like, thank you. I am also missing all the other colitis symptoms.

Then to confound it again, he puts me on antibiotics....for what?? I know you can't 'cure' colitis. For a potential bowel abscess he says. So...you've lost me doc - you're giving me antibioitics for something that according to you isn't there? Oh, and then you say 'please make sure you do double dose tonight to get some on-board'. He did say come back next week if the pain hasn't gone (presumably colitis, which I read is a chronic condition can disappear over a weekend with ethromycin) and he'll organise some tests...hopefully not telescope up your bum....WHAT???? WTF? This is bloody ovary pain...ugh!

My theories on his diagnosis

1. The cramps I have felt all my life when suffering a runny bum were a figment of my imagination and this is actually what it feels like.

2. It was Friday and even he would admit there's no tests to be had over a weekend.

3. He forgot women had ovaries (I have sympathy, I frequently forget we have a Health Service)

4. He did it for a bet. Perhaps it was 'Colitis Friday' and the GPs had a book going on who could give that diagnosis to the most patients.

5. He isn't a doctor, but is actually on work experience from the Job Centre, and had only got to Co in his dictionary....cy for cyst comes a little later on.

6. I looked like crap so he didn't fancy any monkey-delving to root around for a cyst.

7. He thought I was a man.

8. He had a fight with the Gyn at the local hospital and all his referrals get binned, so he just invents a diagnosis to avoid the rejection.

9. He was on his last week after winning the lottery and was having some fun.

Friday, 1 August 2008

...fab work day with my cunning plan for my development lesson working out. Always nice when your idea of where people should be going comes into their own heads without obvious prompting. There's going to be a lot of happy trainee detectives out there!

...definitely not so fab when an intended accolade is interpreted as an insult...did I write it wrong, is the person just looking for negatives, am I over-analysing, should I be pre-editing more? Should I hang onto what was in my head when I wrote, or take the hit (and blame) from what they read?

...Fab when you make/consolidate a new friendship. After several attempts on both sides, am making a link with a neighbour. Good signs are red wine, yeast infections and spiders (some of topics of convo last night)

Not so fab when a hurty pain that's been hanging around really REALLY gets going and you feel a dreaded trip to an NHS doc might be in order, and you go to said doc and as expected it was a pat on the head and some antibiotics. Sigh.

FAB FAB FAB when a gorgeous mate tells you she's pregnant after her 11th IVF. I AM SO HAPPY FOR HER. About 4 IVFs ago she lost twin boys, Ben and Sam, at 18w. I can't tell you just how ecstatic I am for her and her husband, honestly.

Fab fab fab Florence did a weee wee on the loo tonight

Hideous just how emotional my girls get about the whole loo thing when they're learning. Alice only got the poo on the loo thing by me bodily grabbing her when I saw 'POO FACE'

Sad...work drains SO much of my energy. I read over a fair few of my old blogs last night, and they even made me laugh (for someone who admittedly only needs an odd pic or phrase for a giggle....) My blogs were so much more creative and DAMN FUNNY when I was off with the girls...

So, do I feel happier mocking myself and my family? workmates - can I mock? please? it's in the interestes of an entertaining blog, come on...right now, I don't really have any lady stuff going on to share, and make you squeal at my discomfort...

I could historically talk about Mr Pokey, the medically certified dildo, which is allowed in IVF, not only that, is often adminstered by females, duraglyde provided, as well as condom...

1145 get up for screaming Alice, en-route to her room hear merry sound of Florence start crying. HOLLER for DH to get his ass upstairs (yes, I am coming)

1150 Shout DH again

1159 Shout DH using only expletives

1207 Get up for Alice/Florence duo, attempt to slam a door, shout DH

1217 DH gets into bed. Apologises. Lights off, all is quiet, not a mouse stirs

1230 Florence wakes early for feed

0100 Put Florence down for night after feed,burp, nappy

0105-0400 Sit and nurse Florence whilst she calmly surveys all the interesting stuff in the bedroom. Chat quietly to DH about emigrating/joining the French Foreign Legion/taking illegal drugs/sleep plans for next day

4. Alice deciding to have a look at her wee-wee. They're funny little things (children not wee-wees, well, yes, them too).

5. Playing monsters before bathtime. The laughing and squealing...had to be heard (and probably was by all our neighbours) to be believed.

6. The disco that followed bathtime, and the game we invented - taking it in turns to invent a dance and all copying it. Alice's were really inventive and energetic and crap mummy had a hard time keeping up. Florence's were...a bit samey, and often involved chucking yourself on the floor at some point.

7. Not in correct order but girls eating dinner uncomplainingly and without any bargaining/bribery/mummy banging head on table....hey, perhaps TODAY I am SuperNanny.

Monday, 28 July 2008

The first came from Ronda. Ronda appeared on my blog as a commenter, and I am always glad to see her. She's very supportive, friendly and ALWAYS ALWAYS has an encouraging and kind word to say. She also has rather a nice blog and is a book freak like me.

Once an award is received, the rules are as follows:

1. Put the logo on your blog.2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.

Bobby - Bobby writes a fantastic blog, and it always strikes a chord with me...do we have a secret mindreader amongst us??!! She is also one of my first 'contacts' in the big new bloggy world (new to me) and was very welcoming.

Keep - Keep is a fellow Brit, and I have 'known' her for a long time. Keep is a tremendous girl, with a superb strength of character and a gentle, self-mocking view on life.

Michelle - Michelle writes the irreverent blogs I used to write on Yahoo (only mine weren't as good) and used to get myself sent into 'she-who-dares-to-whinge-after-infertility-exclusion-zone'. Well, bugger that, keep on rocking, Michelle. Still love your fave swearword.

Dee -Simply for being her, and for seeming so positive, loving and giving. You're in my prayers, Dee, for your dream.

Keri - She's an expatriot from over here, is now Down Under and is as mad as a box of frogs. And I like that.

Kim - Kim's blog is fab. I really feel I am there when I read her posts. Check out the 'poo in the garden' entry. Make sure you have your Depends.

Antigone - What a wonderful writer she is. She's going through a hard time, and also a good time. Pop along and say hello.

The second (I will be going all Gwyneth Paltrow in a second!) was from Dee. Dee and I met through my blog wanderings and I am very glad I found her. Her blog is from the heart, and you can really tell she's a 'thinker'. She comes across as very thoughful and I am sure she touches a lot of people's hearts.

Instructions on how to pass this along.

1. on your blog, copy and paste the award, these rules, a link back to the person who selected you, and a link to this post: "Pink is my favorite color...". There's a story of Pink Rose Award and other graphic to choose from.2. Select as many award recipents as you would like, link to their blogsg(if they have one), and explain why you have chose them.3. Let them know that you have selected them for an award by commenting on one of their posts.4. If you are selected, pass it on by giving the Pink Rose Award to others.5. If you find that someone you want to nominate has already been selected by someone else, you can still honor them by posting a comment on their award post stating your reasons for wishing to grant them the award.6. You do not have to wait until someone nominates you to nominate someone else.

My nominations here are as follows:

Linds - Everything about Linds is beautiful - her mind, her family, her generosity of spirit, her open, honest nature and her fab blog. She was the person who introduced me to Blgospot, and she has been a friend for many years now.

Ronda - She is quite simply, LOVELY. I love her blog and love her mind!

RM - RM reminds me of myself when pregnant with Alice. RM has to do the hideous lovenox/clexane injections too, the same as I did. She writes a lovely blog and I feel like she's carrying us through her days with her.

Sam - Sam wrote a blog entry about friendship troubles just at the very moment when I was struggling with accepting the end of a friendship. I could relate to everything she wrote, and now both she and I have moved on from that point, but her blog still sucks me in!

Maritza - a very funny and clearly VERY intelligent lady. Her blog is a whole magazine and always very honest.

So, there you have it. Please, please go visit these girls, there's some fantastic reading out there, and some wonderful people to know.

Saturday, 26 July 2008

High - thank you God, for the gorgeous weather, a miracle indeed for a week off booked in liaison with a police shift and colleagues holidays and ENGLISH WEATHER. Well done you!

Low - Caravans and weather - incredibly hot when it's hot, with windows just made for toddler tumbling. And then, abracadabra, Mummy wakes up at 3am to change everyone's bedclothes because they're all cold.

High - the girls and the beach. They'd been to one horrid east coast strip of excuse-for-a-beach-sand before but this was maginifcent! Lovely sand for Florence to scrabble in and the exact right level of micheveous waves for Alice to run from squealing.

Low - rough sea on our last day, which Alice and Florence did not understand. The crashing waves were so exilherating for DH and I, but care-intensive with two determined toddlers!

High - Steam Valley Railway to Dartmouth . This was the girls first trip on any sort of train, and what a train to pick - a restored steam train chugging all along the coast into Dartmouth, with lots of bunnies and people for Florence to wave at.

Low - Why oh why not coordinate ferry times with the trains to avoid long waits with bored, hot and bothered toddlers? Although of course they gave great entertainment (if screaming and running is your thing) to other passengers on the way back.

High - Dartmoor Miniature Pony Centre - the sight of Florence gamely handing in her Pony Ride ticket and having a Heeeeyuge hat fitted and getting onto what seemed like Champion the Wonderhorse's brother was astounding and wonderful, and VERY funny (as was the growling tiger following face-painting!)

Low - Alice got stage-fright and stroppy and refused her ride. I think she saw the ponies as huge as I did. And decided NO. Very loudly. At length. Even when the Pony had retired for Pony Lunch.

High - Mandril monkeys at Paignton Zoo . They honestly seemed as interested in us as we were them.

Low - Toddlers. No naps. Lots of hills. Running.

High - Devon Cream Teas . We found a little place with VERY freshly baked scones, homemade jam and gallons of delicious tea. I miss it already.

High - two girls in one bedrooom - it WORKED! Not smoothly, no, but a lot better than I had anticipated. Florence only fell off her first big girls bed three times (twice migrating to under Alice's bed, granted).

Low - the capacity two girls only jusy over a year apart have for untimely giggling. And lights on. And dragging bedding around. And early singing.

High - the girls seeing so much of Nanny and Grandad, and meeting their cousins for the first time.

Low - the journey home. I am 2 glasses of wine, one bottle of beer in and only just coming down.

Thank you all for your lovely comments on my last blog. The feelings haven't gone away but I am praying hard for strength, guidance and perspective. Loooking a little more closely at my hidden demons, one of which I am considering for Show and Tell. Not a pretty story, but I think it'll be good for me to finally 'talk' through it.

Friday, 18 July 2008

So, all set for our holiday. I have spent the last 2 days cleaning, preparing and packing for us going down to Devon.

Tuesday and Wednesday this week I woke up absolutely tingling with excitement, hoping the reality would live up to what was in my head, and eagerly awaited the start of real 'getting-ready-to-go'.

A couple of things happened in the meantime, both not world-enders but I really do feel like I am utterly at the mercy of what goes on around me (usually caused by me, granted) and my emotions and self-esteem take a huge hit.

I am now as miserable as sin. Thoughts clawing through my head, not sleeping, hardly eating and unable to talk to even a casual hairdresser! I am in retreat, at the worst possible time.

I see my faults glaring me in the face, and I don't like the person I am very much at the moment. I don't even feel I can go into it on here, I am that low and I have opened this up to too many people to really bare my heart.

My little beauties brighten me up, but then I start feeling guilty and sad for not being the Mummy I want to be.

Is it a control thing? is it caused by anxiety? Is Post Natal Depression still in the background? Am I looking too inward? I feel like I have got to an age now to begin to look over my life and I can see clear patterns.

Right now, I don't like me. And I don't know how to change me, or my opinion of me.

Tuesday, 15 July 2008

For 2 days every month I run a training course. Not my favourite part of my job, although once I am in there, and 'on-stage' I get on a roll and get on with it.

Today's class started as usual and I was just setting them up for the icebreaker when one of the students got up and left the room with another student. I didn't think much about it, and my co-trainer colleague went out with them to check what was happening.

About 30 seconds later she reappeared saying 'Nic, he's fitting'. Well, I have been first-aid trained for about 20 years now, refreshed annually, and last year took the step to become a first aid trainer. However, in all this time I have never had to use it 'live'. Thank goodness, it all went ok, the paramedics arrived and the person is being looked after/investigated in hospital.

I felt sick afterwards. Partly to do with just being present in the fast-developing situation, the horror of it (bit silly for a first aider!) and partly I guess from adreneline from just getting on with it. We recommenced training, and the class went on as normal.

About an hour later we got a chance for a break, and I went down to my office to find a note from one of my on-going students who needed me NOW. I called, explained I was in a class but he was adamant he needed 10 minutes...so off I went.

I am on my way to his office, to perform some educational first aid, when DH calls. I try to get him off the phone, and say I will call back.

When I do get a chance to call him I relate how my day has gone so far....He briefly pauses to go 'wow' and the next words are 'what shall I get the girls for dinner?'

Needless to say he has been packed off tonight to pump my tyres, fill up car with petrol and get me something fatty and delicious for dinner.

Sunday, 13 July 2008

Us girls had a fab fab fab day. DH not so good as the CURSED new car refused to start and he was late for work. Not helped of course, by me going out with the girls and him having to wait for me to get back to use my car....whoops.

Me and the girls went to church this morning. A new experience for all of us - them, well there's so many firsts when you're 2 and 3 aren't there! Me, not because I have never been to church, but never been to a church like this.

I liked it, I really did. I have tons of questions, which I guess is a good thing? Much better than yiiiiiikes, what's going oooooooon???!!! People there seemed generally very friendly (although creche lady who called the girls 'back to Grandma') SHAME ON YOU. Just kidding. No, I am not. Arggghhhh. Grandma?? Waaaaaah, I must must must sort out my hair.

Lots of people seemed swept away by their worship. I, in my logical way, am not doubting it, but am really keen to get some elaboration on what was going on. There was one spooky-ish moment, as we arrived there. I have never been to the location before so Mr SatNav took us. When he got into his 'you have reached your destination' loop I could see that the front gates, with the big 'IN' sign were locked. Great. So I whizzed up a random road to turn round. To be greeted by a sign with an arrow for the very place we were going. Coincidence...or...?

I can imagine some people that know me will have faintly raised eyebrows and a smirk on their face reading this. We're not very good at religion, and tend to lock it in a cupboard with stuff like piles medication - lots of people have it but surprisingly few feel happy to admit it.

I think the one thing I find hard to grasp with religion is this: I know a lot of people who go to church very regularly, and presumably live their lives that way - so how do such people do such nasty things? I mean really out and out needlessly vicious and spiteful acts...I know we're all human, but these people seem to have gone out of their way to be horrible.

Questioning is good, and hopefully I will start to gain some insights.

The girls had a good dance, and then played in the creche part, and then stuffed themselves with biscuits and doughnuts. Now, church with doughnuts - why didn't someone think of that before??!!!

Friday, 11 July 2008

I have been using this product for some time now and I notice there seem to be a few bugs that aren't ironed out yet:

1. The switch that is meant to turn it off at night-time sometimes seems to get stuck to the 'on' position, thereby causing me to be awake for extended periods.

2. Along with the above problem, the 'sifting-through-worries' application seems to not only get stuck on, but also runs way too fast sometimes. It also seems to categorise things that don't really fall into the 'worry' bracket as worries, thereby making the whole process an almost constant one.

3. I don't think this model was equipped with the correct amount of memory. A vast number of things seem to disappear off the system, only to reappear, which the system then moves into the 'worry' category.

4. The system seems to have a lot of trouble warming up when it is first booted up in the morning. It often seems to have trouble even functioning to make a cup of coffee.

5. The Rumpy-Pumpy program appears to be not functioning whatsoever. It may well have burnt out as it worked exceptionally well a few years ago.

6. Every so often the Logic-Runtime-system seems to malfunction, causing misinterpretation of a variety of everyday occurrances and complete lack of functionality. This sometimes trips the emotion javascript resulting in unpredicable floods of tears or gales of laughter.

Would it be possible to send this model back to you and have it analysed for defects. I would be happy to accept a stand-in model in the meantime. If you don't accommodate my needs, and address my issues seriously I will be forced to take legal action.

Thursday, 10 July 2008

When they're tiny it's fighting through colic, or days and nights mixed up...and of course the regular round of waking up for night feeds. Babies love sleep, but quite often aren't actually that good at it at night.

Then you move past the newborn phase, some people take the easy-come, easy-go route and don't have any structure to bedtime, some go for the co-sleeping either by design or from being worn down into it and some go for the full-on, by the clock bedtime routine.

Just as you have that sussed, and hopefully sleeping through the night is something fairly regular....along comes TEETHING, WEANING, COLDS ......Yeah!!!! You thought you had a sleep-through baby. WRONG WRONG WRONG.

Soooo....teeth - check, solids - check, colds - check. You know what to do with all of them, within reason. Clever Mummy, you're a real pro.

Muahahahahahaaaaaa says the sleep fairy. WRONG WRONG WRONG. Baby wants to give up one nap, and discovers the joys of overtiredness. and playing. and climbing. and m-a-n-i-p-u-l-t-i-o-n. Deliberate, carefully-planned manipulation.

You overcome that one. Along comes 'dreaming' and 'Mummy-can-you-say-separation-anxiety'. Oh, and more climbing. And the manipulation skills are growing.

Just as nights slowly start to become a time when expecting more than 3 hours sleep on the trot isn't something too unrealistic, the bedtime routine grooooooooows.

Playing and delaying. One and the same. One loo visit turns into 4. Cuddles and kisses turn into a cycle of 'cuggle'...'now tiss'...'cuggle'. Brushing teeth starts as cajolment to do it, and then moves into begging to stop. Every toy in the house, bedding, clothing, food, drink and sponges to wash faces with explode in every room, vitally important and when removed cause screams of dismay.

And you know, I am convinced, we'll get past this only to move into 'pleeeease get out of bed now'.

Wednesday, 9 July 2008

This morning a cat was apprehended at the scene of the violent murder of a blackbird. Detectives attending the scene were reported as saying they 'rarely encounter scenes of such gratuitous and uncontrolled violence'.

The suspect was found at the scene, crouching on a sofa, looking at the victim. Police said he was the prime suspect for the case, being found at the scene and having several feathers around his mouth and on his fur. The feathers have been sent off for forensic analysis to confirm they are from the victim. When arrested the cat leapt playfully at police officers' legs and attempted to bite one officer on the foot.

When interviewed the cat was reported to have offered no explanations for his presence at the scene, and merely rolled onto his side, flicking his tail. The cat, whose identity has not been revealed, but is believed to be one Harry THE CAT, refused to respond to any questioning and also did not indicate whether he wanted legal representation. At one point the cat did mew repeatedly, and refused to stop until he was given biscuits.

The interview was suspended after the cat curled up in a corner and went to sleep.

Detectives are confident that DNA evidence will firmly link the cat to the crime, and are conducting house-to-house enquiries looking for witnesses.

Tuesday, 8 July 2008

Monday, 7 July 2008

Well, after admitting what a trog I look....might as well let you into the other dirty bits.

1. Hoovering (or vacuuming for those over the pond). A little known, and in my opinion, much neglected bonus of having IVF (yes - BONUS) is - once those little embies are in there you're BANNED FROM HOOVERING! How good is that? Really makes spending £6k plus on injecting yourself with hideous drugs for 6 or so weeks well worth it. Oh, and you just *might* get a baby out of it. Hooevering wasn't on my list of fave tasks before IVF, but get this - I have hardly dragged one around the house since! For some bizarre reason, my beloved has conveniently (for me) forgotten I am not the recptacle of our precious cargo any more. This has caused a vague dislike to blossom into out-and-out hate.

2. Ironing. Why. Who bloody thought ironing up 'I know - let's add a job to everyone's day'. You'd think those iron age people had better stuff to think about - say some decent heating for the caves, or TVs to while away nights not out hunting unicorns or whatever. I am actually looking forward to being an old lady and either: not caring if I look like the cast-offs from a car-boot sale (wait - you read yesterday's blog - bugger) or investing in some nice drip-dry ensembles. Naturally by that point the girls will hopefully be taking care of their own clothing, DH can wear some stylish sports suits - sorted.

3. Emptying the dishwasher. I don't really know why but once I know it's finished I slink past it and pretend I haven't noticed. I think DH is under the impression that it's just unhappy coincidence it has always just finished when he goes into the kitchen.

4. Putting clean duvet covers onto quilts. Which is highly unfortunate as I have a bit of a clean bedding habit. I love the feel/small of it, and can go into a fugue and wake up and find myself stood next to a stripped bed, with all the linen thrown down the stairs. Which obviously means I then have to put clean on. I am short. I need to stand on the bed. We have a memory foam mattress - so the minute I am on the bed I slowly siiiiiiink whilst frantically trying to shake the quilt into the cover.

5. Emptying bins. Ugh. All of it, so yukky. I stuff and stuff and stuff and stuff things in until DH eventually arrives home 'wow - the bin just got full - why did you put that apple core in - you could see it was virtually full'.

Jut so you don't think I am a complete vile compost heap - I DO like: OCD cleaning of bathrooms/loos. I do like tidying cupboards. I do like clearing out crap, a little too much probably. I do like cooking, just wish I had more time to do 'creative' cooking rather than the-get-freezer-as-full-as-possible-for-dinners-after-work cooking. I do like blogging. Oh, wait - that's not strictly housework. Or actually, it isn't housework at all, is it? Oh well.

Sunday, 6 July 2008

I most certainly am not. But today I bumped into one I know. I literally curled up into a little ball of envious, pathetic, gibbering scruffiness.

I used to work with her. She now has 2 children - both conceived exactly as planned - #2 in a 1-week window when her blokie had a week back from Iraq. She planned his leave around her ovulation. Naturally they hit the jackpot. But that isn't why I feel such a frumpy, messy, uncontrolled freak around her.

Let's start with how she looks: Tall, naturally very blonde, willowy. She is upper class, and sounds like that, and along with the good breeding she has those perfect social skills that make you feel how thrilled she is to see you, and before you know it you're babbling about the ridiculous bitty-shitty small stuff that SHE DOESN'T NEED TO KNOW! She was wearing some effortless looking ensemble which looked immaculate, her skin was clear, dewy and radiant.

Then there's the 2 kids. #2 a beautiful redhead, perched clamly and quietly on her hip, no fussing, no dribble, no mouth/hair/eyebrows covered in ketchup (the meet was in McDonalds). Her eldest stood next to her, waiting patiently, not saying a word and not running around like a demented rabbit.

Now let's move our viewpoint: Me, hair like a greying, head-scratching 8-year old boy's. Skin...well, probably hideous. I am incubating a non-period zit, and after 2 wake ups last night and then not being able to get back to sleep because I had some very important worrying to do...Clothing - blue tracksuit. Amazingly, non-dribbled on (at that point) My girls - running around a mirrored pillar taking it in turns to squeal. Both of them with hair everywhere, and Alice with her skirt halfway around her knees because she insisted on wearing one that's too big. Florence's trousers were ducky pink with orange stains - she had an orange on the wayto the shops in the car.

HOW DOES SHE DO IT. ALL OF IT.

I make no secret of the fact that I have always wanted to be one of these 'together' women. When I worked with this girl she was also a complete achiever - but never at the cost of alienating anyone. So very good at her job, so organised, so full of bright, workable ideas. I want to puke. I have never been someone who has that 'groomed, finished look' even in the days before 2 kids slimmed my me-time down so much (whilst having the opposite effect on my figure). Now my girls are going the same way. If I put their hair up in pretty things it is either ripped straight out, or the journey there, and car-dancing proves too much for the 'do' and they look like old barbies before we get there. I am thinking dresses. Well, more than thinking actually. I bought them 4 each this weekend. Which is very naughty as we're supposedly going careful in preparation for our holiday.

But they'll look more 'together' in a dress, right? As for me....the only time I can get to the shops is with them, and I don't get more than 2 minutes looking at me-stuff before the craziness commences.

Saturday, 5 July 2008

I spent all day collecting little titbit memories to blog about (excluding the weekly saturday express-train to nervous breakdown grocery shop) and even had 2 goodies to get me kick-started.

Then DH left for his night shift. And my mood, very quickly, quietly and thoroughly plunged. To flat. I hate hate hate these police shifts. He didn't get in till 10am this morning, was meant to finish at 7 but as virtually every shift, had to stay late. We never did anything vastly exciting or important at weekends - no family near and no one my girls know well enough for me to leave them with, our high point was usually a takeaway, a DVD, and maaaaaybe, if we were feeling frivolous, a bottle of wine or a couple of beers between us.

But that complete together, relaxed, home, US thing rocked my world. We're so comfortable together, find the same things funny, understand each other's weird worries, oh and we can even share it in russian if the english word doesn't quite hit it!

Now it feels like he's never here. Not in any significant amount anyway. I'm not good at TV, it takes me some discipline to actually sit that inactive. With him watching a movie was activity in itself, just being there with him. But there's no point without him here.

He tried so hard to get into the police - 3 goes. It didn't come easy as the hurdle of not being a native speaker of english was, and in some ways still is, huge. I am so proud of him. But, there's a big part of me saying 'be careful what you wish for' Yes, he got in, but not only now really faces the mountain of learning the job, but also it has had such colossal impact on the time we get together...

OK, one bit of what I wanted to blog about before I got a case of the sads:

Alice and I have a fairly complicated ritual regarding bedtime, the penultimate part of which is 'so, darling - what are you going to dream about?'

He does this little ritual when he gets into bed (always after me)...comes into room, tickles one of my feet which are sticking out of quilt, goes to bathroom etc, comes in, sits on bed and BRUSHES HIS FEET....Whaaaaat - do we live in a bedouin tent? Was there a sandstorm while I was reading?

He gets horrific hayfever, a gift from the UK to him

He is OCD clean obsessed. Goes SO well with having toddlers

He is nuts on watching movies - any old rubbish

He can't stand adverts on TV and will feverishly flick channels in an attempt to avoid them

He has been an absolute rock for me through some difficult times

He can have a hideous temper but life as a Police Officer seems to be suiting him well in changing this tendency

He makes me laugh until I almost wet myself (almost being......well, 2 kids - what do YOU think?!)

He has expensive tastes

He has an award for bravery - pulled a woman from a burning house

He has a wife who adores him

Will stop before I go too sloppy and lose my regular readers who come here for sarcasm, self-pity and to see if my space bar is finally working

Thursday, 3 July 2008

A little dripping tap of mini-annoyances turned today into 'utterly fed up and wants to win the lottery and buy a house and a beach'.

Here is not the place for me to list them, work stuff, individually I would have ridden them and thought 'bah, curses, how frustrating'. Together, one by one they totally knocked my mood and now you lot get a whiny blog (ah, but I did WARN you, in my profile!)

So, rather than enumerate them, let's give them a rough category:

Someone being horridSomeone being forgetfulSomeone being pissy and spoiltSomeone being thoughtless

2 of the items affected other people so had knock-ons, the other 2 only affected me and will have passed unnoticed by the individuals. So - they're alright then...? right?

Gaaaaaahhhh.

When I am in this mood I want nothing to do with anyone other than my family. I beat myself up and think why why why why and picture myself in a little ball of ice, touching no one until it melts when I come home.

On a lighter note, although not moving away from the 'hit-Nic' theme - I am a complete monkey. Need to look into my IComLeavWe status, as stupid skim-reader I can be when rushing through something, the 'We' part of it didn't register as 'week'. Or what week. Yes, that'll be the one when we go to South Devon on hols. In a caravan. With no wireless access no doubt. Even IF DH would be overjoyed with my keeping up my blog addiction whilst away. Sooooo....I am reading tons of blogs at the moment, and commenting more than lurking, so hopefully it can be in the bank??? Please??!!

6. Always ensure you gulp as much juice/water as is physically possible before eating.

7. When Mummy appears particularly harried, hot and bothered, adopt your best whiny voice and ask for sweets/crisps/chocolate/biscuits in an increasingly threatening manner.

8. If you have a sibling, do your best to eat in the most ridiculous, mess-making manner to get them laughing, and copying. Hopefully in an even more outrageous way than you.

9. Then copy that.

10. Between mouthfuls (if you have caved that far) run around as much of the house/garden as you can.

11. When not running go to the loo, put on Mummy's clippy shoes or muddy wellingtons and 'made for walking' is your watchword.

12. Beware of the GOOD cake. There are occasions you will be palmed off with smiley biscuits or jelly or muffins. Mummy and Daddy may just have gourmet range (or even home-made - gasp) mouthwatering delights. Hold out for these.

13. If holding out doesn't work, go back to rule 3.

14. Parents may erroneously attempt to bribe you into eating. There is intensive research being undertaken, but it is highly likely that Santa DOESN'T see everything, and what goes past your lips doesn't interest him one whit.

15. Growing big and strong is down to genes. More research is taking place, initial results of which point to sweets and crisps being highly beneficial to bigness and strongness.

16. If the pressure's really on, and some of the threats/bribes seem genuine, make puking faces. These of course disappear the moment the pressure is lifted and you can move onto the sweets/crisps/chocolate litany.

17. Try not to fall for the 'disinterested act'. Look closely and you'll see they ARE bothered, just keep it going.

18. Check what has been cooked for dinner and ask for the polar opposite. Keep Mummy off-balance and you'll always have the upper hand.

19. Run upstairs and slam your door at the mention of dinner. Just because, really.

20. It sounds a cliche, but mindless screaming really is SO effective.

Tuesday, 1 July 2008

Oh my sodding stomach. It's out of control. It's its own universe. It lives its own life, has its own job and I think (hope) has booked its own holiday.

I wasn't exactly sylph-like before my babies, but this is NOT FUNNY. Ironically, Ihave thread-like arms, child-sized wrists and ankles of a young gazelle. And the gut of a dart-playing, beer-swilling, pie-eating fat bastard.

Sit ups you say - the muscle is buried so damn deep below this ecosystem of lard, they're not even aware if Ihang myself upside down holding a toddler by each arm.

Eat less you say. Well, that's all well and good, but I object on moral grounds the fact that whatever deliciousness you put in your mouth bears any relation whatsoever to Planet Belly.

Tummy tuck you say. In a heartbeat. Except. In the country of 'free' healthcare (otheriwse known as 'Wing it, hope you stop moaning and if we do have to refer you on, hopefully it'll be gone by the time you eventually get to see a dismissive consultant' the idea of spending any money on private medicine NOT for the purpose of keeping us all healthy is quite inconcievable. The only time I have paid for medical treatment was for children - before I had them, and expressly for the purpose of having them. Added to that, there is also the not-so-small issue of a hankering for private education for the girls. They are allegedly quite bright for their ages, but to be honest, having seen some of the results of state education during my forays into teacher training, even if the girls were as bright as my cat, I would still prefer them to be privately educated.

So, we're at an impasse. At the moment I haven't got the energy to devote to the control that a 'diet' requires, and despite my objections I know it's the only way. Sigh...

Calamity tonight. Florence is a hider. She grabs stuff and secretes it in all sorts of odd places. We're still minus the middle bit of the loo roll holder in the downstairs loo since she put it 'in the bin' (her words, not mine). Now tonight we had absolute meltdown from Alice because her toothbrush has disappeared. I turned out every teeny little bag, every cupboard, drawer, under every bed, behind the loo. Nothing. So I have to come up with something clever to persuade Alice to be ok without her sparkly-blue-flashing-rabbit toothbrush tomorrow morning.

It's summer here in the UK. Today, that is. I don't deal well with the heat, DH abhors flies and also suffers with hayfever so teatime/bedtime was a little frazzled with 'BATTLE OF THE DOORS'. I eventually won, although he doesn't know it. Multiple windows wiiiiiiide open upstairs.

Monday, 30 June 2008

All is well. Florence started thedayin the same state as yesterday, completely refusing to put any weight on her right leg. She did a weird kind of leopard crawl out of her bedroom to come and have a nosy, but that was it.

By lunchtime you wouldn't know anything had happened. I am so relieved.

Being a bit of a worrier (really?!) this of course just reinforces all my irrational fears - naturally, her falling when playing obviously WASN'T on my list of things to panic about, as it wouldn't have happened if I had worried about it. I have some weird logic going which says: if you keep it on your worry rader it can't happen.

This clearly doesn't make for a fun-filled time, and certainly does me no good. And deep down, yes, I know it doesn't really protect us from anything. But I can run down my list of 'life disasters' and without exception the things that happened just hadn't occurred to me: 4 years start to finish for baby #1? Nope, hadn't thought of that. Pre eclampsia? who? Dad being rushed into hospital with a rotting gall bladder? you're kidding, right? and many more, as they say for CD compilations.

So, what to do? How can I worry about everything? Should I? Part of me knows that this is physically impossible whilst still functioning as a human being...that way lies madness. But letting go of the worries I do have just seems so reckless, to be inviting trouble.

Florence, despite her injury has been full of humour. And appears to have discovered a new trick. She's started blaming her toys for her own misdemenours. So, tonight, Macca-Pacca was a very naughty boy and made lots of noise and messed up Florence's bed after she was supposedly settled for the night. Macca-Pacca was also playing with Fi-Fi and making her go 'night night, time for bed' about 53 times. I will be having a quiet word with Macca-Pacca and he may well lose some priviledges (#1 being fiddling with Fi-Fi). Alice's toys, I am pleased to say, are perfect angels and Alice admits to any crime readily, although we do get a bit of a 'no comment' interview sometimes when she's cross.

Sunday, 29 June 2008

A fun playdate ended rather suddenly with Florence screaming in agony. There was some rough and tumble, and my friend and I had just popped in the kitchen for 5 seconds when it happened, so we're not too sure what actually went on.

But it was a swift packing of a bag with snacks, and off to A and E to get her checked out. She can't bear weight on it, and REALLY cries if she tries. The x-ray was inconclusive, as apparently on toddlers a fracture quite often doesn't show up right away, only when some healing starts.

Iam very sad, my poor little girl, she's happy enough sitting, as long as you're bringing her stuff but gets so upset when she tries to walk.

Her and Alice have gone to bed grubby, tired and very late. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Saturday, 28 June 2008

I am pretty sure Alice doesn't have cystitis. I lay in bed with bated breath, awaiting the shrieks when she got up this morning and went to the loo. Nothing, just her usual monologue, informing me of her plans for the day, and how Florence mustn't take Mr Tickles, oh no, he is her toy, Florence has her own, and when we go to Tesco we need to buy some jelly tots.....

So, curioser and curioser. I stand down from Defcon 2, and follow orders to go to Tesco (not just for the jelly tots). Tesco's was so jolly. Oh, no, that's right, it was hideous. I obviously go on 'I am a selfish tit' day or maybe it was the Annual 'haphazard Trolley Control' competetion. Is it me, or pray, is it not sodding rocket science to 'park' your trolley considerately. Bad enough that I have to grow 14 eyes to keep track of child-on-fast-forward, Alice darting here, there and everywhere, helpfully gathering odd stuff and launching it into the basket. Maybe the other shoppers were in an alternate reality, where there were not other shoppers, and so abandoning their trolleys at artful angles didn't matter as they were the only people in the shop. Added to this, our Tesco has its own mission statement 'The Customer is rarely right' so you just watch out for our bored, don't give a toss teenagers chatting to one another as the shelf-stacking thingy blocks almost the entire aisle (It's only the salad bit, no one needs that). Then there's 'old single bloke alcoholic who hates the world' VRRRRROOOOOOOOM....10 points, I got another kid.

After this glorious interlude we spent time playing in the garden, and I couldn't help notice Alice kept doing an impression of a man - namely grabbing her bits, giving em a quick twist, and moving on. Uh oh....

So back to Tesco we jolly well went later. I took a small gun. Bought some live yogurt. and crisps. and cucumber. But they're irrelevant. The yogurt was for Alice's...

What a performance!! Firstly of course I couldn't call it yogurt - we'd have got into the whole toddler logic thing, in which I instictively knew, yogurt on a monkey was not going to be a winner. So I called it 'special cream'. It was cold, and she screamed blue murder when I put it on, and insisted it hurted. It's a while since I have had the joy of the yard-broom affliction, but I don't recall yogurt 'hurting' as such.

Anyway, to cut a long story short (why didn't you do that 9 million words ago??!!) it ended up with me having to prove it didn't hurt. By having the yogurt treatment myself. All over my face, stomach and hair. By both of them.

Friday, 27 June 2008

I am pretty sure Alice has cystitis. The screams and tears when she went to the loo before bed were horrific, and the way she's walking tells its own story.

So, here in Olde Englande we can either boil up some toads and crush with the hair of a 100 year old woman, add a little sugar to taste.....or equally problematic is how you can get medical attention in the UK out of Monday-Friday 9-6 (2 hrs for lunch)

A couple of years ago Alice picked up some sicky bug with a raging high temperature. She was NOT herself in any way, and lay around in and out of sleep, refusing to eat, drink...anything.

Here's the process (and a brief precis of the 'call')

1. Rang GPs surgery to get their answerphone telling you to ring emergency number or ring NHS Direct.

2. Rang NHS Direct, following me telling them her temp and not drinking told to ring emergency number for GP.

3. Ring through to a CALL CENTRE. Nice. Explain your problem to a non-medic and they decide whether you need to speak to a doc now, or if you will have to wait for them to ring back 'within 2 hours'

4. Wait an hour.

5. GP phones

'What's wrong with her?''sickness, temp etc etc''How high is temp?''104''Have you given her paracetemol?'no, we thought we'd just see what the boiling point of a 1 year old is''Is she stripped off?''Oh yes, in fact, we've half hung her out of the window - it's snowing tonight, you know''DO YOU THINK SHE'S ILL?''No, of course not, there wasn't much on telly so I thought I would just see how many health professionals I could speak to in an evening' (I DON'T KNOW TOSSER, YOU'RE THE PIGGING DOCTOR)'Can you get her to me?' (1 yr old, high high temp, not really awake, floppy, barely responsive, outside minus yikes degrees and SNOW)'yeah, we thought we'd bring her over in the buggy, nice night for a 10 mile trip with an ill 1-yr old''So you want me to come out?...(sigh)''No, no, heavens no, you stay there, have another whiskey, don't mind us. Got any mates I can call, by my tally I haven't talked to a chiropodist yet tonight'

He did eventually come out, smelling of whiskey I kid you not. And yes, she was ok, and yes, I was no doubt over-panicking BUT I DON'T CARE. My kids, my worry, and I pay my taxes, oh yes do I.

So, tomorrow will be the phone chase until I finally get a GP to agree to see us. I will make sure I wind Florence up a bit before I call so she can add some extra dramatic screaming sound effects to poor little Alice's genuine ones.

Thursday, 26 June 2008

I held a v near newborn today. Actually, I had him sleeping on my shoulder for an hour. Popped in to see a friend and her little boy, Leyton. What a darling! and how small are they?! Little tinker, he definitely likes a sleep on a person!

I am on my knees tonight. DH has been on late shifts all week, not finishing until at least midnight, not getting home until 1230 earliest and last night was a wowzer....I woke at 2am to just hear the tail end of a text message 'all fine, v busy'.....back to sleep. Awake at 4am...no DH, go down and try to phone him....no reply...managed to get back to sleep and he arrives in just as I am getting up at 0630.

I just can't settle when he isn't here....the crash, the thought of what *could* happen to any police officer on duty. I need to adjust, and soon! For a professional worrier I have a man in the wrong job. He's home tonight, and even him watching bloody football doesn't bother me, just lovely to have him here, in fact the football makes him even more present!

Sorry blog a bit blah tonight, I plead uber-knackered and promise to do better tomorrow.

Nice to see people visiting, thank you. If I don't fall asleep and dribble onto my keyboard I will be 'going out' tonight ;-)

Wednesday, 25 June 2008

I did a brave thing today. For the last 2-3 months I have been filling a manager's post temporarily. I was also still fulfilling my usual role. Not good. Add DH and his steep learning curve as a new police officer, his car accident and my now being unable to sleep when he's on shift. Recipe for one pissed off little bunny. I have been going down, down, down for a few weeks now. I had some time to reflect yesterday, and really analyse things, and the only variable I could have some effect on was the job.

Money's great. Buys lots of nice stuff. But it isn't something that makes me happy. We don't NEED the extra, and in the big scheme of things it didn't truly make a jolt of difference. But my enjoyment of life and everything was dribbling through the floor. So, after discussing it with DH at 1am (he knew it was on the cards, just the 'when' was rather sooner than we'd anticipated) I told my boss this morning.

Felt pretty down all day, despite this supposedly huge weight lifted, but am now feeling tons better, and think admitting temporary (if the job comes up stand-alone I will go for it) defeat is actually a kind of victory - I have won me back, and my joy in life. I have won my ability to be DH's rock, as he is mine, and I am sure the girls have picked up on it (which makes me feel terrible) as they were little sparkling gleams of sunshine this evening (well, ok, Alice has reached 'wardrobe' stage and insists on multi-changes like on 'What not to wear', Florence obviously being Trinny and Suzannah) and we had some beautiful girl time together.

The trouble is, I am just incapable of being a half-measures person. If I do something, I do it completely thoroughly - as a wife I am so committed to not only making our marriage work, but to also keep hold of our romance and wonder with each other (glad to say though there's been some hard times we've come through the other side), as a friend I am scarily loyal, and open and honest to a painful degree, and expect the same back, when I was TTC it was a full-on operation from the get-go and the hurdles in our way just fired me to learn more and find our path forward. So, for me to dip in and out of two jobs, even if the powers-that-be are more than happy with what's happening, I hate it. Not being able to have closure on something, finish it off, causes me incredible stress and I go into free-fall, circling around and around things until I can't sleep, think or even comunicate logically as a human being. I drive myself, and others insane with my dog-at-a-bone worrying at things, and eventually something falls over. When this is with regard to inanimate things, it's usually me that falls over through overdoing it. In relation to relationships, I will probably wreck it, through just not leaving well alone. As I don't seem to understand others' need for space, people often don't understand my need for 'we're ok, just leave it a bit (famous I vant to be alone!). DH of course falls into the latter crowd, but we've come to a good way of working through these tendencies and providing for the others' preference - my pick pick pick, and his ....sulk! (I call it sulk, the passive-agressive 'not speaking to you' )